


Changing Your Ways

by Gelatichthyes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Piercings, Punk!England, Tattoos, avoiding arrest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 22:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gelatichthyes/pseuds/Gelatichthyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A certain Frenchman saves a certain Englishman. The twist? Said Englishman is a pissy punk avoiding arrest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pickup

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm transferring this from ff.net to here. Sadly, I cannot import stories from there, nor can I copy-paste. Instead I must painstakingly hand type every word. Every. Single. Word.
> 
> Though, I am adding and changing some, just to try and make my writing better.
> 
> Expect all updates to be on Ao3, not ff.
> 
> Rating may change.
> 
> *If anyone has ideas for any other piercings or about the tattoos Arthur has, I might use them*

Arthur ran his fingers through his multi-streaked hair, sighing loudly. Another night, another bust. It probably didn't help that his drummer was bloody wasted and he himself had started a bar brawl.

Sitting down on the curb, he waited for the band to come by and pick him up. He had decided to hit some other bars for a drink after he and his band got kicked out during their performance, but now all he had was some crumpled dollars, his guitar, and himself.

Sighing again, he glared across the street at the electronics store with its irritating fifteen-some televisions all set to the same channel, all blaring for attention. Worrying his lip ring with his tongue, he watched the news report flicker across the screen.

"Three members of the band 'Tough F*cking Love' have been arrested for possession and use of opium. Police are currently looking for the fourth member, Arthur Kirkland, for questioning. Reports describe him as a male in his twenties with short blonde hair containing streaks of color, with multiple piercings and tattoos. Please report any sightings, as police are unsure if he is dangerous or not."

Arthur stared at the screen in disbelief. He couldn't believe this- no, actually he could. He knew his band was rough, hell, he himself is rough. But he doesn't use opium, but sadly the bloody police would never believe him. He'd be just another punk that got cleaned up off the streets. He looked at the puddle between his feet as if to confirm who he is. Left eyebrow stud? Check. Nose ring, on the right? Check. Snake bites? Tongue stud? Check and check. Lots of jewelry in his ears? Oh yes. Frowning, he glared at his reflection. Who cares what he looks like? Isn't the reason he started his band in the first place was because fucking people would judge him at very bloody look they gave him? Shit, he's never had a job even because he "doesn't look the part."

Just then a sleek car pulled up alongside him, destroying his reflection as it splashes the puddle up the legs of his torn black skinny jeans.

"The hell?!?"

"I suggest you get in Art'ur, that is unless you want to be arrested?" The speaker of the voice belonged to the driver, who had rolled down the passenger side window. He was a man who looked a few years older, much more richer, and very, very French.

Arthur glared at the man as he weighed his options. He doesn't trust strangers, but he supposed he could take out the pussy before he got raped or murdered, and really didn't fancy getting arrested. Yanking open the door, Arthur climbed into the passenger seat, hugging his guitar case to his chest. "So who the hell are you and how did you know me and why are you doing this?"

As the car smoothly pulled away from the curb, leaving no trace of the Englishman behind, the driver smirks in a very infuriating way, "That is a very good question, is it not?"

"Don't give me that shit! It's a simple question and I'm not in the fucking mood!"

"Ah ah ah~" the man waved his finger at Arthur, "I prevented your arrest, but I could very well still take you to the station." Arthur quieted down, wanting to avoid exactly that despite still not trusting the man not to do that. "My name is François."

"What about my other questions 'Francis'?"

The Frenchman sighed, sensing this would be a very, very long car ride. "It's pronounced François, not Francis, and you are in a band, are you not? Is it that surprising that I would know of it? As for why I picked you up... Why don't we leave that for later, oui?" He turned towards Arthur and winked, his aqua eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Fuck you and fuck your country. I'm gonna fucking call you whatever the hell I want, Francis."

And so it began.


	2. Problems Arise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rock music in the morning and eating problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this contains a plot hole, but I dunno how to work around it. Virtual hugs to anyone who catches what I'm thinking of.

Francis woke up to a splitting headache. After that long ride with the surly Englishman he just gave up on the whole François-Francis thing. Maybe calling himself Francis was his way of rebelling against him. No... his head was just full out throbbing. Wait... that's more than just his head. His house is throbbing! Pulling on some clothes, he headed to the guest bedroom, remembering his unruly guest from the night before.

"Mon Dieu..." The curtains were shredded, the knick-knacks broken, the carpet already had some mysterious stains. And in the center of the wreckage stood Arthur, grinning like a madman, playing his guitar, the amp attached to it turned all the way up.

"Like the redecorating? I got bored after you locked me in here."

"For good reason obviously! Otherwise you may have destroyed my house! Do you understand how much this cost me!?"

"Nope and I don't give a fuck."

Francis pinched his nose and closed his eyes. "You will have this cleaned up before breakfast. Breakfast is in an hour." With that he left, throwing one last glance at the Englishman who defiantly stared at him the whole time.

 

 

Sitting on the floor pointedly refusing to move gets real old real quickly, so Arthur decided to get breakfast. Besides... it smelled really good... However, the problems started as soon as he set foot downstairs.

"Is the room clean now?"

"Hell no."

"Cleaner?"

"Hell no."

Francis grabbed his wrist, preventing him from swiping a bite off his plate. "No food until it's clean."

Arthur yanked his wrist out of Francis' grasp, glaring at him. "Fine. I don't need to fucking eat anyways. Won't be my first time skipping a meal, won't be my last."

The Frenchman stared at him worriedly, "You skip meals, Arthur?"

"None of your fucking business."

"That is not healthy."

"Well you ain't my fucking mum now are you?"

After a careful pause, Francis responded. "Please remove your shirt."

"W-what the hell! Bl-bloody pervert!" Arthur stumbled a few steps backwards away from the other man. "I'm not a whore!"

"Non! I would never-!" Holding his hands up in an attempt to calm him down, Francis took a small step forwards, "I merely want to see if you are underfed. If you prefer, we could see a doctor, although he would be obligated to turn you in."

After a short standoff, Arthur whipped his shirt off and stood in the kitchen tensely, gripping his shirt in one fist, staring pointedly at the floor.

The elder man quietly steeped closer and gently put his hand on the other's ribcage, feeling the obvious ridges, then running his hand down his side, grazing the top of his protruding hipbone before dropping his hand. "This is not healthy Arthur. Sit. Eat. I'll clean everything up. Our lessons can wait for later."

As he left the room, Arthur let out a shuddering breath then pulled a plate of food closer and beginning to eat, all the while thinking. _Lessons? What lessons?_


	3. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Franny's house is too fucking big.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are prob gonna be short chapters, but hey, they might be semi-regular then. Probably not. Don't get your hopes up.

Arthur finished eating a while ago, but he hadn’t seen Francis since he went upstairs to go clean. He totally didn’t feel bad for destroying the room, but, you know, maybe he shouldn’t have. Francis did, after all, save his ass from getting arrested. Not knowing what to do, he decided to sit in the living room. Or whatever that big room with the comfy looking couches was called. He wasn't a fucking priss like the Frenchman!

Meanwhile, Francis was almost done cleaning up all the broken pieces of his stuff and scrubbing out those stains and cleaning the room up in general. Picking up the punk was really a stupid idea. What was he going to do with him? Lessons… That was just something he spat out to make him sweat a little, but now he probably has to go through with it. Damn that punk!

Arthur, NOT feeling bad for destroying that so-called expensive room, went upstairs to try and find Francis. Problem was, he forgot what room was his… “Francis?”  
“Ah… Oui Art’ur?” 

Dammit. He can’t say he wanted to help! “I’m bored, fucking Frenchie. Give me something to do.”

Francis sighed and looked around the room. It was clean. Cleaner at least. “Alright Arthur. I think it iz time you learned some manners though.”

“The hell? I ain’t gonna be your bitch or anything nasty like that.”

Francis had to bite his tongue to keep from responding to that. That's now the second time he's made a remark like that and it was really getting on his nerves. He may like to really get to know people, but he would never force himself upon someone! “Of course not mon cher. Go back down to the kitchen. I’ll meet you there.” There was no movement from the other. “Arthur?” He was met with a glare. A smirk played across Francis’ features as he realized what was wrong, “What? You cannot find your way back?”

“Shut up! Your house is just too fucking big!”

Chuckling, “Alright alright. Follow me.” Picking up the bag of trash from cleaning, totally not smirking at Arthur's embarrassed face, Francis headed down the hallway, an irritated, but silent punk following him.


	4. Backstories of One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul searching and backstories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please tell me: am I moving too fast?

“Tell me about your life.”

“What’s there to know? My dad buggered off when I was just a kid and then my mum died when I was in high school. I dropped out and started a band with my best mates.” Shit… Why am I telling him all this? Arthur set his jaw and glared at the older man, determined to say no more on the subject.

“How did you pay for such a nice guitar?” Blue eyes examined green for any clues, “Unless you stole it?”

“I didn’t fucking steal it!” Arthur avoided the Frenchman’s gaze, choosing to stare at the floor instead.

“Arthur? How did you get the money? Guitars are not cheap...”

Without another word, Arthur stood up so fast his chair slammed to the ground and then he stormed away to that big cushy living room thing he saw earlier.

“…Arthur?” Francis followed him into the living room and sat across from him. “Arthur? Look at me. I won’t judge you. Whatever happened, it happened in the past.”

The punk, that broken, torn up punk, refused to meet his eyes, but began to speak, so softly, that Francis had to strain to hear him. “Tricks. I turned tricks okay?”

Francis leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Arthur. I said I wouldn’t judge you and I won’t. If it makes you feel better, I’ll tell you something I haven’t really told anyone else.” He relaxed into the chair, looking like he was going to read a book instead of tell heart-wrenching stories.

After a moment, Arthur turned somewhat towards him, “Are you gonna say it?”

Francis’ lips turned up in humorless amusement, “My parents are quite rich and influential in France. However, they are not very loving or open people. I spent my childhood be ushered from one nanny to another, never really getting attached to anyone. I could not do anything, in fear of breaking something, messing up room arrangements, or ruining my clothes. I spoke when spoken to and was disciplined when I did not act proper enough.”

He closed his eyes; lost in nostalgia, not seeing the pitying look the other gave him. “Once I was twelve, my parents deemed my old enough that I didn’t need an au pair anymore. School was the best thing ever, which I finally got to go to, instead of having a private tutor. I could speak, laugh, have fun, and as long as no one came, I didn’t go anywhere, I kept my grades up, and my clothes and things stayed in good condition, then my parents never questioned me.”

Arthur leaned forward, completely caught up in his story, his own troubles forgotten. “I made many friends and had many admirers. My two best friends- I could not live without them. However, as I approached my seventeenth birthday, I decided I was sick of living like I was a doll. I guess a little part of me wanted some sort of response, and a bigger part of me wanted affection. I had kissed many in hallways and under the stairs and in bathrooms, and on occasion done a little more, but I wanted, no, I needed to feel loved.”

Francis took a shuddering breath before continuing. “One day, I brought the current person I was involved with home, while my parents were away. I thought we would simply make out or such and then leave, just leaving behind traces that people had been over. However, two things happened. One, we got carried away. Two, my parents came early.”

“So what happened?” Francis jolted at the raspy voice of the Englishman. He had almost gotten he was there.

Francis swallowed hard and stared at the floor morosely, “I got caught having sex on the couch.” He looked up at Arthur, his eyes heavy with sadness and regret, “With a man. It goes without saying that my homophobic parents kicked me out of the family and out of the house because I was a disgusting disgrace.”

Without a warning, Arthur lurched forward and wrapped his arms around Francis, gripping him tightly against his chest. For a minute or two they stayed like that, the only sound their pounding heartbeats, before Arthur pulled back enough to look Francis in the eyes.

Their eyes, green and blue, stared into each other, searching to comfort the hurt hidden within. Their lips were millimeters apart, barely touching but not quite, Arthur’s cold metal lip ring just brushing the other. Their parted mouths barely gave out the hint of breath. Then Francis closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Arthur was gone.

Francis exhaled loudly, his tense muscles going slack, rolling his head back against the chair. What just happened?


End file.
